


How does that make you feel?

by shouldgowork



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Gen, This is a bit random
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5748052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shouldgowork/pseuds/shouldgowork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fear, loathing and low self-esteem take on a new face in the corridors of power, to (almost) no one's delight. </p>
<p>(Partly inspired by an acquaintance, who quit a job as an investment banker to become a therapist catering solely to them)</p>
            </blockquote>





	How does that make you feel?

Martin’s ambitions, since he was old enough to have realistic ones, had been political. Through the Thatcher years his conservative leanings had been enshrined and his debating skills honed off of his outraged, Communist peers at Llanelli Boys Grammar School. By the late 80s he found himself clinging, via an SPS degree at Cambridge and an impressive run at its Conservative Association, to the outskirts of government.

But having gotten a definite foot on the rung, the ladder he clung to had suddenly turned into a writhing mass of venomous snakes, each head more eager to bite him than the last. What should have been the start of an inevitable rise to power had quickly turned into some personal descent into hell. It wasn’t too long before a casual drink at the Red Lion had become ‘The Drinking’, referred to in hushed tones by his non-political friends and louder ones by his sister, and not much longer still before this turned into a lock on the drinks cabinet at his parents’ house when he stayed, a standing order at Oddbins to his London flat, and, finally, not four years after the start, a car he crashed into a beautiful old elm in the driveway of a thankfully un-litigious friend.

The price of this silence had been a promise to ‘finally get help’. Perhaps, had Martin been closer to home at the time, he later thought, he would have been dragged before the stern Baptist whose guidance his mother clung to. As it was, his friend, a master at Charterhouse, lived in Godalming and within the hour he’d been deposited at the Priory. By the end of his stay, he had found his saviour in group and private therapy, had seen miracles done with a radical new practice called Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. Most importantly, he had finally realised the toxicity of his chosen career and had vowed to walk away from it, which was just as well as it turned out he’d been fired in absentia and replaced.

After quick a quick call to his flatmate’s answering machine-

_Hi, looks like you’re not in, it’s Martin. I’m not coming back right away but I’m paid up for another two months so don’t do anything, yeah? If Catherine comes by for the last of my files, let her take them. Except the blue one. She’s not taking my fucking policy ideas as well as my job._

And a short detour to Godalming to apologise and offer sincere thanks, he was on his way towards the West Country, over the bridge and speeding homewards. Dinner that night was strained, and his father barely maintained a dignified, if breathy, silence through the first two courses, as Martin explained his hatred of the atmosphere in Westminster and his wish to do something more meaningful with his life. His mother cooed sympathetically (her old minister, it emerged, had recently had a heart attack brought on by religious fervour and had been replaced by a milder model; Mrs Wintle had realigned herself accordingly) and wondered aloud that more people in his position didn’t crack under the unbearable pressure of it all. His father venomously asked him if he was going to devote himself to all that new age stuff he was now bleating on about. Martin went to bed with both thoughts in his mind and woke up before dawn with a broad grin.

‘I’ve decided what to do now. With my life.’ He said as casually as possible over breakfast that morning, ‘I’m going to become a counsellor for politicians. You said it yourself, mum, half of them are on the verge of losing their minds. I bet a lot of them already see one, but think how much better they’d feel going to someone who actually _understands_ what they’re going through, but can’t break their confidence without going to prison.’ His mother smiled pleasantly and glanced at her husband. He sat, frozen behind the newspaper, for a few seconds, computing this turn of events, weighing it up; deciding he could now describe his son as a medical professional to their acquaintances, remembering that he was reading more and more about this therapy stuff every year and that it was clearly here for good. He grunted his acquiescence. Mrs Wintle now allowed herself the stronger commitment of a small squeal of pleasure and pride, and, having gained parental blessing, he started packing almost immediately.

It took two years, two difficult years, juggling his part time course and a pen-pushing flexi-time clerical role in the civil service. Over the course of many evenings in the pub, tonic water firmly in hand, he cultivated his former work friends into a potential client base, talked them round from positively derisive to quietly curious, and finally to openly interested. He had a small stream of clients from the day he qualified, which grew and grew and, eventually, to his great pride, included Labour and Lib Dem members too, always carefully spread throughout the day and week interspersed with normal people to avoid awkward run-ins. His clients became not just more numerous, but more illustrious, as his original clients rose (or not), and as his skills were quietly recommended in higher and higher circles.

He was, he was happy to acknowledge, far richer and more content than he would have been without his career change, as his work reminded him daily. However, that in itself was the problem; as time went on, he became, if not actually jaded, something very like it.  He had once had a lot of sympathy with his political clients, but their problems were, more often than not, petty, or self-inflicted, or both. Before very long, he wished he could shake almost all of them by the shoulders, to tell them that their problems were minor, their self-esteem over-inflated and that their wrong-doings and mistakes were not negated by the fact ‘they only came into this wanting to do good’, a common defence in his office. Eventually, he even quietly cancelled the party membership he’d had for nearly half his life. He realised, with neither surprise nor sadness, that his non-political clients were no longer the glue holding together his actual career, they were just as interesting, if not more so, and he was beginning quite seriously to consider slowly phasing politics entirely out of his life. Until He happened.

One day, a regular client, a narcissistic junior minister, came in looking unusually cowed, his accustomed strut replaced nearly by a shuffle. After a few minutes of non-committal complaints about his career trajectory and the difficulties of balancing a family and a mistress, he came to a complete halt for a few seconds as if choosing his words carefully.

‘ _Good heavens, surely not yet another girlfriend.’_ Martin thought to himself.

‘I’ve been having some… body image issues.’

This was not the reply he’d expected. ‘Go on.’

‘No. It’s nothing. Forget I said it. Only….’ He paused and shifted uncomfortably in the chair. ‘Is my hairline receding _that_ much?’

‘No.’ Martin lied. ‘But partners can often say something in the heat of the moment that they don’t really-‘

‘Well, no. It.... never mind.’

Odd, he thought, but knew better than to press.

It happened again a few days later with someone else.

‘Someone I know. New PR ‘guru’. He…He said I would have made Sophie’s Choice a fucking walk in the park.’ The special advisor said, cringing visibly. ‘I’ve never been spoken to like that before. It was very unsettling.’

‘Can you explain to me what happened?’ The counsellor asked, surprised rather than sad for the man; the hours he spent with the diffident shadow minister he advised had long convinced Martin that he had this, and worse, coming to him.

‘Well, I mean, I had accidentally told a journalist about… well. I’d rather not say.’

‘ _You don’t need to.’_ He thought to himself, learning where the near-leak of the shadow minister’s alcoholism, the resultant panic being the subject of this week’s session with the trembling mess, had originated.

‘I imagine that was an upsetting thing to hear. It shows a lot of latent rage. I think that perhaps it was more about himself, than it was about you.’ Martin said, making a mental note to watch out for new clients with severe anger issues.

‘Well yeah, he’s completely insane. Anyone could have made the mistake I made. I’m sure the bastard will be gone before long.’

The special advisor was gone within the month; the mystery man evidently was not, though he didn’t turn up at Martin’s door either. Quite by chance, Martin noticed a jump in requests for appointments, and new clients, from Labour members. He had often dealt with conflict and bullying of, by and between the people he saw, it was always petty and consistently boring. Over the years he’d found it all starting to blend into one, but this man’s wit and malice sparkled and he found himself following the man’s career without even trying, by noting his insults and put-downs.

 

‘He said I should have Eddie the Eagle skiing down my fucking face, I really don’t think my nose is _that_ big.’ Another special advisor whined, as nasally as ever.

 

‘I ate his curly wurly.’ A senior civil servant said shakily. ‘I can’t bring myself to repeat his exact wording but… I’ve finally written my will.’

‘I think we should focus on the positives there.’ Martin replied neutrally.

 

‘He said I reminded him of a deflated Mr Blobby.’ An extremely ruddy and spotty minister complained.

               

More and more people, further up the food chain and, eventually, cross party, had suffered the lash of this man’s tongue and its apparently endless supply of apt insults, until there was hardly a man or woman on the register who hadn’t had something to complain about, and Martin had been able to gradually increase his fees. He knew better than to suggest complaining through channels either official or unofficial. One was simply not done, the other clearly suicide when up against this opponent. Instead, he sympathised, negated, countered, suggested coping techniques, and, privately, remained as amused by it as ever, as it continued over the months and years.

 

‘Shitler’ A cabinet minister mumbled at the floor through newly shaven lips. Martin’s own twitched into a smile; that moustache had always bothered him as well.

 

‘He called me the Cuntess of Wessex – I am _not_ a Champagne Socialist. I have very strong feelings about… well, you know, _social issues_.’ Said a member of the House of Lords, fiddling fretfully with her elegant Cartier bracelet.

 

Martin, almost against his own will, had an encyclopedic knowledge of the small bits of information he had gleaned about the man during this time. He was Scottish and looked like a hawk, he could be charming when he wasn’t vicious but, it seemed, had no real friend amongst his client base, and worked alone.

He awoke one morning to literally dozens of emergency appointment requests.

 

‘Hell has spawned once more.’ Began his first appointment of the day, somewhat dramatically but perhaps not inaccurately. It seemed his mystery man had gained an apprentice.

 

‘He somehow mated with Lucifer.’ The follow up said in a somewhat brittle voice, tearing a tissue to shreds in her hands. ‘The little one said he was going to turn me inside out. I still literally don’t know what he meant.’

 

‘He threatened to reinsert my tonsils. He was so _small_ I thought I’d be ok. Mind you, bombs are quite small these days, and look what they can do.’ Said another one a few days later, looking somewhat shell-shocked himself.

 

The reign of terror continued and, by the results of the ‘97 election, had had the desired effect. Buoyed by success and power, the mystery man had made Martin’s office busier than ever. It was that very autumn that he finally caught a glimpse of the man himself. He was strolling along Pall Mall on an extended lunchbreak, taking in the familiar sounds of traffic and tourists, when an insistent, low buzz caught his ear, and slowly transformed into a very angry, very Scottish voice.

‘What, _Ed_? Don’t send _him_. He looks like his skull’s on backwards under his skin. Or that psycho wife of his punched him so hard, his chin bone went from an outie to an innie. Anyway, it’s fucking _distracting_. For once we want the fuckers to listen.’

Martin froze and scanned the crowd ahead of him. This had to be his man. There was no doubt about it. He spotted him soon enough, stalking down the pavement looking like rage personified, shouting into a brick-phone. Martin realised with embarrassment that adrenaline was coursing through him. After all these years of speculating and admiring from a distance, he had to take his chance. He put himself into the path of the other man, babbling as his mind went completely blank.

‘It’s _you._ I’ve got to thank you. You personally paid for most of my house. So thanks.’

His quarry eyed him suspiciously as if wondering, with no visible fear, but rather sheer annoyance, if this lunatic was going to knife him. Apparently deciding against it, he stormed off, resuming his conversation after the short pause.

‘Eh? Oh, nothing. I think I just met the new poster boy for Care in the Community. Anyway, _firefight_ this till I get there, sacrifice Sarah if you have to, throw her to the fucking wolves. Real or proverbial, I don’t give a shit either way….’

Martin listened until the voice subsided back into the general hubbub of the city centre, too elated with success to feel the embarrassment, for now at least, and was still struggling to suppress a grin when he made it back to the office for his next appointment.

 

 

 

 


End file.
